


Words

by Conspiracy



Category: DRAMAtical Murder
Genre: Abuse, Drabble, M/M, light rape mention, metaphor abuse, mostly unedited, unrequited feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-24
Updated: 2014-02-24
Packaged: 2018-01-13 15:02:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1230838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Conspiracy/pseuds/Conspiracy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>just a little insight/reflection into trips relationships wth virus and aoba </p><p>this summary is balls just read the thing</p>
            </blockquote>





	Words

**Author's Note:**

> as said in the tags this is mostly unedited 
> 
> i went through it a few times but there are probably still a few mistakes 
> 
> i wrote this mostly for 2/23 vIRUS' BIRTHDAY HECK YEE  
> please be gentle this is the first time ive written anything for dmmd  
> constructive criticism is def welcome though

Love definitely wasn’t the right word for this.

No, in fact, it was almost too common; anyone, Trip supposed, could be deserving of love, anyone could fall victim to the saccharine sweet feelings that people he considered to be several rungs below him chased after as if their meager existences depended on it.

And Virus, well….he was anything but common. In a world of dulled hues and dirty colors, he was bright, clean, fresh. He was the light at the end of a dying mans tunnel, delicious and warm and just out of reach.

Even in that way, in how he longed for him, he couldn't bring himself to call this lust, either. After all, that was was beneath him as well, common, dirty. Lust was simple, lust was easily resolved. And no matter how many times the bottle blond got the older male into his bed, no matter how many times his rough fingertips traced out smooth, angular, curves and felt heat tense underneath, he was positive that he would never get enough.

Of course, those times had happened less and less since they had thought to bring Aoba here; a realization that, once it had dawned on him, had festered in his stomach until it turned into a localized itch that spread all over his body, a feeling he had no name for that made him uncomfortable.

He would have to be stupid to not see why Virus liked the boy; he was, in all forms, a hedonist, and while the mullet youths powers had been the initial source of the attraction, the real jackpot was his lithe, slim, frame, so ready to be used and abused and violated.

Despite that, whenever the boy happened to wander into his line of sight, apart from being thin he was no worse for wear; it seems as if he was getting a much more gentle treatment than he ever had, in evidence of the scratch mark scars down his back and the bite marks that dotted his own broad shoulders, which up until this point he had worn like a badge, proof positive that he had been allowed to share space with an angel and had weathered the beautiful impacts.

And if he took out the feeling that surged through him, when he happened to see the megane lead him away into his bedroom, on the dreary blue hair that he ripped out when he could, left his own set of marks that wouldn't fade on pale skin that yielded easily underneath his actions; well, that was only fair, wasn't it?

After all, it wasn't Virus he had a problem with; he deserved to have everything he wanted, no matter how frivolous, deserved to drink fancy wine from chalices made for Gods and wear robes of the finest silk and have any body underneath or on top of his that he so chose.

It was Aoba, with his fake hues and even faker seductive glances, the purr in his voice that was like a lie in and of itself. His goal was to rip him down off the pedestal that the universe had put him on, to make him no more than a pet.

And maybe, if he could do that, Virus himself would realize that the boy wasn’t all that special; although he would never hope to be able to sway his thoughts in such a way, at least not out loud.

After all, that would be the place of a friend, or a lover, and despite their past together, he knew for sure that the other man had never applied those descriptors to him, and he wouldn’t have used them in turn.

They were inferior, in no way a descriptor of the bond they shared, as were most of the words that Trip knew.

Personally, he had always thought words were overrated.


End file.
